A Cantic Christmas

by Pierre Bdard based on a short story

Citizenship by John Bdard

Copyright 2013 by Pierre Bdard. All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review or scholarly journal. First Printing: 2013 ISBN 0-9650269-2-2

Canadian Immigration Inspection Station, Cantic, PQ (present day Lacolle, PQ) 25 December 1953 - 0330h The border crossing at what is now Rouses Point and Lacolle was a popular place for southbound traffic during the Prohibition, from 1919 through 1933, as alcohol found its way south. By 1953, the border was much tamer, but cold and desolate, especially on this early Christmas morning. A situation often encountered on the Canada / U.S. border: a wandering laborer who hardly knows where he is, much less his citizenship status. A helpful inspector is always on guard at the border to help. I was working the 12 to 8 shift with my good friend Jules, both of us fairly fresh members of the enforcement division of the Royal Canadian Department of Citizenship and Immigration. Our job and our lives at the time were metered in 8-hour shifts of 8 to 4, 4 to 12, and 12 to 8, but mostly 12 to 8, because of our junior status in the service. We are in middle our third 12 to 8 rotation in a row. Just as well, it being Christmas. No one sane is out there tonight. The Cantic Canadian border station is two miles due north of the U.S. Customs house, our
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opposite New York State inspection point at Rouses Point, manned by our friends, the Americans. Since Jules and I are new, fresh and desperate for work after playing in Korea together too close to the front lines and sailing around on merchant ships during the War, we gladly take any shift given us, especially if we can stay warm, well fed, and relatively safe. I consider myself fortunate to have made it to work in one piece tonight. The wind was either blowing up Lake Champlain or sucking down the Richelieu River, depending on your perspective.1 Either way, making my way down from the village to the station for my shift tonight was not a trivial exercise. It is now winter and winter reigns in upstate New York / down province Qubec. Getting to the station so I can get on station is the first step. Many nights its the only step - getting here takes more effort than what my partner Jules and I will put in during our shift. I want to make it clear to the reader that nobody has slept, sleeps, or will sleep while we
Lake Champlain, which pours into the Richelieu River and then empties out into the great Saint Lawrence River on its way to the Atlantic. 2 Crotons is a Quebecois pork pat. Think French
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are on station in Cantic. We work by the book, and the book says no sleep. If, at some time during our shift, as we sit in the lunchroom with our lunch buckets open in front of us, in front of our little stove radiating so much heat that you think your toes are burning in your steel-toed boots, and our heads slip down into our crotons sandwiches, we might rest our eyes for a few seconds, maybe even a minute or two, but hardly ever more than fifteen minutes, ever, that I can recall.2 With regulations in mind, we always take turns eating to ensure that neither of us sleeps on station. Never, ever. The graveyard shift is the graveyard shift. Tonight I stand watch at the station desk while Jules eats with his eyes closed in the back room. The windowless room serves as the infirmary, our indoor secondary inspection for pat downs and strip downs, and of course, the lunchroom. Theres next to no draft unless the door is open, and this helps cool things off in the summer and keeps it toasty in the winter. Of course, in the summer, you can theoretically go
Crotons is a Quebecois pork pat. Think French rillettes except the pork is ground, not pulled. Puts poutine to shame when on toast with coffee. I am getting hungry thinking about it.
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jump in Lake Champlain to cool off. In the winter, you cant leap into a bonfire to get warm. For long. If by chance our supervisor decides to brave the weather and icy roads to show up in Cantic, or if either of us thinks we need help with a potentially difficult or dangerous inspection, the signal is to throw our heavy glass Labatts 50 ashtray, usually full of smoldering rolled Players and Export As, fast against the inside wall. That usually wakes Jules up. It only took three months and an AWOL U.S. Marine who was out of his mind to establish our ashtray into wall signal. Nothing says I need you like the loud thud of a full ashtray bouncing off the thin faux wall separating the lunchroom from reception. Nobody gets curbside service tonight its just too damn cold, -20 F topped with a little wind. Any of our potential clientele making their way to Canada will have to come inside for a talk, unless Jules agrees to go out there. After a careful interrogation, we will likely determine, quickly and efficiently, that a secondary inspection, especially if it must be performed outside, is not necessary. Again, its just too damn cold.
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While Jules sits in the lunchroom on the first of his graveyard shift lunches, my feet sit propped up on the desk and I look south towards the Etats Unis, while reading a forgettable dime novel sporting a cover much racier than its writing. Its a spy novel about a guy who spends his days having sex and killing people. Very realistic. Written by an American. I could use a personal introduction to the blonde in the black dress on the cover, but Cantic is a long way from wherever that cover is supposed to be. The writing is alliteratively sluggish tonight, much like the visibility outside. You can hear the snow gusting against the siding of the station. I have to stand up and take a walk around the office every fifteen minutes to keep from falling asleep. I jump up and down; roll three cigarettes and smoke two, anything to stay awake. I spot a shadow coming my way from the American side. Hard to say from here, but it looks like a pedestrian carrying a bag on his back. Hes bouncing up and down. Boots, light greatcoat, maybe a toque on his head. We will see, we will see. What a night to be on foot. Probably a local farm worker coming home for Christmas
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day dinner. His frozen breath makes him six inches taller. I decide to go into the lunchroom to get him a cup of coffee. He deserves it just for being out there. Got one coming in, Jules. I said headed into the back to grab a refill for me and a tin cup for my soon-to-be-newfound friend. No response from Jules, he may be eating another fifteen-minute meal. Coming back up front into reception, I look out the window but cant see anyone coming. Ive lost him! Where could he have gone? I grab my coat and rush out the door. My heart rate crests as I catch him thirty yards down the road, footing it north at a good clip. Hes got a huge gut and his greatcoat is dull red with white lining. I stop to catch my breath. Hey! You! Where are you going? I pause for effect as we stare at each other. His breath is wet and strong, but hes not winded. Where do you think you are going? You are now entering Canada, sir. Cant you read the sign?
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What do you mean read the sign? I wasnt speeding, I swear! Besides, all I wanted was not to bother you. Its too cold out here. It is damn cold. Get in here. I motion to the door. I got coffee for you. The two of us ambled into reception, taking care to step hard on the doorjamb to rid ourselves of the sticky snow on our boots. We grabbed two notched oak office chairs that might have been part of the room since the last station remodel at the end of Prohibition in 1933. Now tell me all about it. Lets start at the top. Whats your name, sir? Nicolas, you dont pronounce the s, Nicolas Leblanc, sir. Citizenship? Place of birth? What do you mean, seasonship? Where were you born? Oh that? In Stratton. I think. Not sure though. Might have been Lac Megantic out east. it? Well, lets say its Stratton? Which one is

What do you mean, which one? The one closest I guess? What is this you think business? Stratton is in Maine, isnt it? Or Vermont? Dont think they moved it, did they? Try again. Born in Vermont or Maine; neither makes you Canadian, Mr. Leblanc. Beg your pardon, Officer. No disrespect. Not sure. I just think I was born in Stratton. I was born real young, so I dont remember it much. Lets assume you were born in Vermont, over there cross that border. Then what? Do you have paper telling me who you are? Then what what? I got no paper on me but rolling papers. Lets say, lately I worked for Old Man Barnes down the road here. Until Bessie, his conjoint I think, went to Albany to see her sister and never come back. Barnes started drinking more cidre after that. Not that I blame Bessie for not coming back, because living with Old Man Barnes is not always easy for Bessie, specially when Old Man Barnes decides to drink le cidre. Im not sure things are any better for Barnes either, when Bessie gets going. She listens to the Texas radio preachers, tubthumpers raising all kinds of hell, at all hours,
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about damnation and bad spirits. She also likes to order the pills, by the bushel, that the ministers pitch, for diseases she does not have or knows nothing about. Just in case pills she calls them. As you can imagine this just in case business gets Barnes pissed off, and I am not even going to try to tell you what it does for his blood pressure. Once Bessie gets busy doing these things, her cooking goes all to hell. No salt in the soup, no salt in the stew, hell, no salt shaker in the house. The more trips Barnes makes to the village to buy salt, the more salt Bessie throws out the door behind his back. Things got so bad, I have to go to a neighbors barn and hammer me a piece from the cows salt lick. Not that bad that salt, by the way. Carry some with me all the time. Probably the way they get it from the mine. Care to sample? Nicolas reached into his pocket and took out a small muslin satchel that I assumed had some of the salt lick salt. I waved my hand at him and shook my head I didnt want to see. Not tonight. It was Christmas morning. I was saying, he began. As you were telling me. I interrupted.
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Thats right, and as Bessie, the wife, got more and more religion, she had less and less time for the cooking and the washing. The old man got fed up with having to buy salt twice a week. We werent to figure out what was going on until last month. At three in the morning, hearing some weird noises and strange singing outdoors, I came downstairs, and looking out the window, spotted Bessie throwing something around the sides of the house. Later that day, once I had told the old man about it, he faced her with the facts. She told him the bad spirits had taken over the house and that she was trying to chase them away, with blessed salts. What blessed salts? he asks. The blessed salts that I got the priest to bless, she says. Bull, he says, damn priest Murphy would never do it. Oh yes he did! says Bessie. When I get him to bless a medal I hold in one hand, I got a bag of salt in the other. Barnes got angry. He declared on the spot that it was probably too late, she was probably infested with bad spirits already and salt, blessed or not, was not going to help and that her moving out immediately for a good
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while would be in the best interest of all concerned. So she moved out. Enough about Bessie and the old man. Your parents, what can you tell me about your mum and dad? My mother was French. My father? No idea, not sure - just told he was lost in war. I am sure of that because on every 11th of November at 11am, rain or shine, some years it is mostly snow or shine, we stop whatever we are doing, take off our coverings and bow our heads for a minute. You wear a poppy? Yes, sir. Every year. The conversation stopped. He started looking into the wood floor, vacantly. Did I tell you about Old Man Barnes being mean when he took to le cidre? I did. Good. Now I want you to know that I am the type of person that can overlook getting my thirty bucks a month late or even not getting it at all, when things get tight on the farm, but I want my share of the juice when there is some to be had. On that, I have to insist. We ran out of cidre and the old man cant cook. Gotta
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move on. Here I am. No pay, no cidre, no decent food. I leave. Blowing snow announced itself against the windows in reception. I was enjoying the heat and having someone or something to get me through my shift awake, no matter how inane the story or misadventures. Now, Mr. Leblanc, what can you tell me about your citizenship status? Seasonship? Citizenship? Oh yes. Well I had a long talk on that with an officer in Alburg last year. I explained everything to him and he let me through and he promised me, better . . . he swore he would have an answer for me in his hands the next time I went by his place. I just want to be like everyone else, who cross every day. I want to be able to answer the next time someone says: What is your seasonship? I want to say, Yes sir; I am one of them, I am. I want it to be like it was in the army. I want to snap to it and salute when hearing that music. Can you help me sir? Do you think you could fix me up? This citizenship business is screwed up. I got no paper. I got no memory but whats here around the Lake Champlain.
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He said Champlain without pronouncing the m or the n. Let me refill your cup, and then we talk. Stay there, please. I excused myself and went into the bathroom and stared in the mirror for a sec before doing what I had to do. Took my time to wash hands. Slapped my face a couple of times to stay awake and walked back out to reception. Now back to that citizenship bit. Where were you born? In or around Stratton, I think. I know for sure that the doctor came in from Sainte Anne and that I was baptized in Sainte Anne. Sainte Anne is in Qubec, you know. I know. What about school? In Sainte Anne, too. That I know for certain. Actually there was not much of that because it happened at the time my father was reported missing, and as we lived a long way from the village, I did not go for long. That I know. Work, social security, unemployment benefits? Away from home, since I was thirteen. Farm and bush work, here and there. Potatoes in Maine and lumber camps all over - Qubec,
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Vermont and New York upstate. I have a U.S. Social Security Number somewhere and I collect unemployment money in Qubec when I can. What about the army? Did the draft get you? What about voting? You bet they did. Shipped me to Alaska, too. Cold mother up there I tell you, but not as bad for me as for some of the others. We had this captain from Florida I believe, or was it Alabama? Anyway he got up one morning Mr. Leblanc, stop, please. We want to be done here before the ice breakup on the Richelieu. Right. Now what else do you want to know? You asked me about voting. Correct? Yes, I vote in Qubec when I am there, but I vote over there, too. I remember one very well-organized election in Albany a few years back when, matter of fact, we voted a few times. But why all this now? Jimmy, the officer in Alburg, told me that he would send everything to Washington and let me know when the results came back. They should have decided by now. We are not in Alburg and Jimmy works for my counterparts on the American side protecting his border, not the Canadian one.
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You guys must talk! Check with him! Pick up the phone! Use the hotline! Sorry officer. Just trying to be helpful. Now, as I said before, if you check with Jimmy, I bet he will give you the results of his enquiries to Washington. Sorry but I cannot check with him because I work for the Canadian, not the U.S. Government. Look, what are you planning to do in Canada? Well, I was thinking about going to Monsieur Latours place, down the road here, for a while. Spring will be here shortly and he will need help setting up his eel traps on the Richelieu. We get along good and he has cidre. Officer, I am not lying and dont know more than that. I know that I was born here, baptized there, went to school here, worked there, registered for the draft here but went into the army there. I dont have the money to get papers and it is always trouble, trouble and more trouble, every time I turn around trying to cross your line. What harm have I ever done to anyone? There I have been all those years, pulling my own way, minding my own business, always trying to do my best.

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I am with you, Nic. This is a mess and I would not want to be in your shoes. Dont get me wrong. Im as straight as they come, but we all have our limits. For me, it might have been in Korea, the North Atlantic, or any other thing Id been through since 1939. Here I was on Christmas morning, early Christmas morning, trying not to freeze, and Im dealing with an undocumented transient named Nicolas, who is trying to come to Canada to access a steady source of work and cider. Here, I told Nicolas as I handed him a comb out of the vending machine in the bathroom, I think I have a deal for you. Take this, go into the bathroom, do your thing, comb your hair and Ill get you on your way, but we have to do a ceremony. Yes, sir! I mean, no sir! On my way, sir! Be right back. Right back. Nicolas Leblanc rushed into the bathroom with the expectancy of a new groom getting ready for the service, without quite knowing why he was getting ready. In my mind, Nicolas Leblanc looked ready to become Canadian. Are you ready? Yes sir, I am.
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You stand up now, raise your right hand, and repeat after me. I, Nicolas Leblanc. I, Nicolas Leblanc. Swear that I will be faithful and bear true allegiance to Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth the Second, the Queen of Canada. She be the Queen of Qubec, too? Nicolas, come on. I swear I will be faithful to her Majesty, Queen Elizabeth. Queen of Canada. Queen of Canada. Her Heirs and Successors. Heirs, successors. And I will faithfully observe. Faithful observe. The laws of Canada and fulfill my duties as a Canadian citizen. Laws of Canada and duties as Canada citizen. Excellent! Now do the sign of the cross to seal the oath and allow me to shake your hand. Merry Christmas, Nicolas, you are the newest Canadian citizen in Cantic!
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Thanks, Officer! Would you say that this calls for a drink, now? I have a few more hours on shift so I will decline the offer of caribou. I decided to take a more serious tone with my newly minted Canadian. Listen, Nicolas, let me remind you of something. You must always keep secret the ceremony we had here this morning. Because if you dont, the American authorities, hearing that you became a citizen of Canada, may get peeved at you and bar you from traveling and working in their country. You understand that? Nicolas bobbed his head. You can always mention my name, but it will be better if we keep what happened here strictly between ourselves. Lets say it is just a dream, a beautiful dream. You got that straight? Goodbye and good luck now. On your way now. It is a dream, and you best keep the name of Nicolas Leblanc to yourself, John. Now let me get back to the sleigh, the reindeer are getting restless. I dont have all night. Right. I thought. As he crossed the threshold of the door his greatcoat turned as red as fresh felt, as if the moonlight caught him
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stepping out. And his beard, I really hadnt seen it, or noticed it. I heard the bells and maybe snow against the windows again, in a gust. I woke up on the floor of reception, in a cold sweat but not uncomfortable. My cheek was half-stuck to the dusty floor with drool. My coffee sat on the table, lukewarm. What the hell, John! Get your ass up before someone sees you. It took a few seconds before the blue blob I knew to be Jules came into focus. John, you are scaring me. Whats going on with you? Its Nicolas Leblanc, Jules, he came through again. Joyeux Nol, John. Joyeux Nol, Jules. It was my last Christmas in Cantic.

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About John Bdard

Jean (aka John) Bdard served in the Royal Canadian Merchant Navy from 1942 to 1950 and the Royal Canadian Armed Forces from 1950 to 1953. He for with Canadian Immigration for ten years before immigrating to the US in 1964. From 1964 to 1969 he worked as a janitor in a juice factory, a women's shoe salesman, and a grocery store security guard. As soon as he became an American citizen (and eligible to carry a gun) he was accepted into the US Customs Service, where he retired as a Senior Inspector after 20 years of service, including a 2.5 year tour in Laos as an advisor starting in 1972.

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